


It's Not Easy Being Whatever Colour I Am

by stonerowboat



Series: Beyond The Vale [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is all that's right in the world, Gen, I have no idea, Introspection, and death by frozen scorpion, and self-confidence issues, fleshing out a minor character, fun with pronouns, gender neutral terminology, mentions of depression, with crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonerowboat/pseuds/stonerowboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shape In Grove Park That No-One Acknowledges Or Speaks About - what's up with that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Easy Being Whatever Colour I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so, here's another thing. I've no idea where this came from. Please forgive the crazy.

The Shape In Grove Park had a problem; It'd always been a bit self-conscious as a young form but then, wasn't everybody? Isn't everybody _still_? Well, that somewhat sub-par sense of self was easily enough ignored when It'd been young - every entity went through its phases, after all, and It was fairly sure...well, It's mother had _said_...and wasn't that rather the point? Mothers were always biased towards their spawn. When It'd approached Its mother They'd (It'd always tried to keep away from assigning mother a gender. After that debacle with father...you know what they say about assuming things: it all ends in bloodshed and the echoes of entreaty in your nightmares) said that It'd been a fine shape. A wonderful shape. A shape It could be proud of... _she_ had bee- oh crap. Ah, well, mother'd died in the scorpion hail of '73 so it was fine.

But wasn't that the problem? Its mother, Its one role model and source of true comfort, had passed away and after that there had been no one It could go to with Its self-image issues. Because they'd started being actual issues when It'd watched the other kids It'd known grow up and develop those _legs_ and _arms:_ _two_ of each, usually. They'd grown into a shape that'd allowed them - most of them - to blend easily into society. Those that hadn't blended had been those entities that'd had _attitude,_ Proper _confidence_ , the type The Shape In Grove Park had always wished It could've had, and had stood out _with style_. Like the McDaniels fellow. He'd been such a hoot! (Hiram himself had identified as male very early in life, so It had never had to worry about the consequences of assigning unprovoked gender with that chap.) But The Shape, It hadn't had that confidence. It hadn't fitted in - the wrong number of limbs had been the _least_ of Its worries - and It hadn't had that... _shazam_...that ability to throw Its weight around without caring what others had thought.

What to do with Its life? It'd always been a tad precocious and there hadn't been anything It could learn at school that It couldn't work out for Itself with the aid of a couple of library books; the Librarians had still been teething around about that time, so the worst It'd ever come away with was a good gumming. Bit of a limited education, admittedly, but more than enough to get by with - It's father hadn't been able to read, which probably explained why They'd been so suicidally presumptious that one time: They hadn't been able to read the hazard sign. All told, It had had a reasonable education, enough for a job offer to pop up fairly quickly, considering. So It'd moved out of Its mother's crater (It'd had to tread carefully: It'd never been any good at housework and at least five scorpions had escaped the vacuum cleaner. They would've thawed by then and It didn't know what their venom would do to It) and quietly, unobtrusively moved into Grove Park. It'd made a name for Itself there. Not an important one, of course, It had had a very limited skill set after all and there was only so much work It could do with It's level of social anxiety, but It'd been a name with Uppercase Letters. (That had been one of the few moments of pride in Its young life; the first time It'd heard the capital THSI and G Its heart had properly swelled. Or Its pancreas, possibly.) It'd lived there for a few years. The job of local landmark hadn't paid massively, but then, It'd never been a particularly materialistic being: sustenance and a place to live, that's all It'd needed. All It'd wanted, really, so It had spent a good portion of Its life there, taking Its cues from the more experienced landmarks and moving up in the small world of Landmarking. The job had been steady, reliable and fairly easy and, what with all the success, modest as it had been, it'd really started to help with It's self-confidence.

But then, one day, It'd heard someone - new blood, the spawn of one of It's own generation going by the ears - place an _inflection_ on Its name. A new one, one It hadn't heard in reference to Itself before and just like that the job had changed. Without anybody telling _It_ anything! Suddenly It went from The Shape In Grove Park - a respectable, reasonably satisfying occupation - to The Shape In Grove Park _That No-one Acknowledges Or Speaks About._

And _that_ , that had _hurt_.

It'd protested at first; It had spoken to the Mayor, the Sheriff's Secret Police, even strangers on the street - which was a big thing for someone with social anxiety. The most It'd gotten was a flinch and a deliberate aversion of the eyes. Up until then It hadn't known It'd had a cloaking ability, or whatever it was that'd made It mostly unnoticable to the human eye, but when It'd gotten a letter in the post confirming that the _That No-one Acknowledges Or Speaks About_ was now an official job title Its hard won confidence had plummeted and the thing'd definately kicked in. The Shape had always been a being of principle, Its father had drilled that into It, and that was probably why it'd hurt so much when It'd just rolled over and accepted the - what, promotion? Because it was discrimination! _Obviously_ it was. If Hiram had been there he'd probably have kicked up a wonderful fuss, got the whole thing revoked or something, but the dragon had been on the run again and anyway, It probably wouldn't have listened. Depression is a leech, you know.

It'd been there, The Shape In Grove Park _That No-one Acknowledges Or Speaks About,_ for a few years. Doing Its job quietly, unobtrusively, putting up a token struggle against the depression - enough to justify Itself to the memory of Its parents; It _was_ fighting, really It was. Honest Ma. It'd let despondency become Its default setting, all of that cheerful if slightly sarcastic optimism squashed out by the weight of forced anonymity. And then it'd come. The Day. The day Night Vale management had up and told It, without preamble or any notice at all, that It had had to move. Move! _It_ , move! After all those years of devoted service! After Its quiet obedience even in the face of such blatant discrimination, discrimination that'd sent It spiralling into the mire of depression - and had anyone ever offered councelling for that? No! Of course not! They wanted It to bugger off and get out of the way. For a play park! Some childhood triviality! Didn't they know how short childhood _is_ compared to the rest of a person's life? What sort of an investment _was_ that?

It'd gotten so _angry._ So angry and desperate...and then that's when It'd heard it.

The voice on the radio.

Talking. About _It_! _No-one_ had talked about It in years and that person...It had grabbed on to that person like a lifeline. It'd shrugged off Its notice-me-not defense and had, for the first time in Its _entire life_ , willed Itself noticable. It had projected as loudly as It could to that small, beautiful group of protesters that It had wanted to be _there_! To the place where that voice, that person who _acknowleded_ It was...and they'd taken It there! And the voice had _looked right at It_! Oh sure, they'd dismissed It after a word from _'management'_ but the look on that person's face, the obvious 'I'm only saying these words because they're telling me to. I know you're there. I can see you right in front of me' cut right through the damaged layers of Its psyche, enough to let in the palest beam of clarity and It'd thought to Itself: 'I exist. Of course I do. So why am I here, pretending for these philistines that I _don't_?' And It hadn't deigned to answer Itself. Instead, It'd left. Right up and gotten, of Its own violition _thank you very much,_ the heck out of Dodge.

 

*

It's been moving ever since. The nomadic lifestyle suits It and the whole non-materialistic thing really helps on that front. Occasionally It'll pick up a sticker or something, should the mood take It, but otherwise It's a leaf on the wind, so to speak. It'd even ran into Hiram once, a few months into the new lifestyle. The dragon had been so happy for It It'd nearly wept - only It'd restrained Itself, because It new Hiram was bad with tears. Instead, It'd spoken about the new life It'd made for Itself, the places It'd been and the people It'd seen. Hiram was a good audience, humming and clicking his tongues in stereo and asking just the right questions. When he'd asked what had kicked off the whole 'look out for number one gig', as he'd put it, It had told him about The Day. It had spoken, quivering with remembered indignation, about the discrimination and the impudence, the blatant disrespect, the disgusting lack of empathy and, of course, the Voice. Hiram had cocked two of his heads at that, the other three deep in debate about the merits of eating members of the local populace, and asked if It'd meant Cecil.

That had given It pause. It'd asked the dragon about this Cecil, did he know them? And yes, yes he had. They'd not been friends but they'd known of one another. Hardly ever left the studio, Hiram had said, had the address somewheere. He'd rummaged through the pockets of his - no doubt stolen but It wasn't going to ask - Armani coat and pruduced a worn out old flier for something or another, hard to tell through the stains, and said the address was at the bottom, there beneath the spatter. It'd put it away, just in case, and bid the lizard farewell.

Hang on a tic, it's only just now occured to It to thank that person, that Cecil, because It had been missing out on so much by just _following society_ and this Cecil might very well have saved Its life. Hmm. It's staying in some strange place called Luftnarp right now, but there's one of those little touristy shops in town - the sort that sells postcards. In the morning, It thinks to Itself, It'll go and buy one. Something simple, It thinks, nothing overly saccharine or anything, just a postcard. And It'll write Cecil a note - It still has the address here somewhere - yes, here it is. It'll thank Cecil for the wake up call, for the ackowledgement, explain how much it'd meant. People like knowing when they have positive effects on other peoples' lives, right? It'll tell Cecil anyway.

Maybe they'll start a corresspondence! A friend in a fixed place, in amongst the whirlwind of Its transient life. Perhaps Cecil knows of some destinations It could visit; Hiram had said Cecil had done a bit of globe-trotting once.

And maybe It could ask Cecil what pronoun they preferred: speaking entirely in gender neutral terms makes Its brain ache.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I'm really pumping these things out, huh? This is the drabble-sized thingie I thought Refraction was going to be, before it took over my hands and ate my brain for a bit.  
> Here's the thing: my brain is a weird place and every now and again some of the crazy runs into each other, makes with the friendly and results in this sort of thing. I've decided that INEBWCIA won't be a singular fic. In future, whenever my personal brand of insanity happens I'll try and get it down and dump it here. No regularity or anything, just the odd drabble when they come.  
> As always, The Harbour's open for tourists, so give us a holler if and when you swing by.  
> Note: I won't be posting any future shots on this story, instead I'm making INEBWCIA into the first of a series; Beyond the Vale. That's where my little lost things will go.


End file.
